


In Sight

by ratherastory



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amnesia, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, Ficlet, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 01:13:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherastory/pseuds/ratherastory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ficlet written for a prompt by Zolac_no_Miko, who wanted Steve/Bucky "I've always got you in my crosshairs." I've never written Winter Soldier stuff before, so I hope this works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Sight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zolac_no_Miko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zolac_no_Miko/gifts).



The face is one he knows. In fact, he sometimes thinks he knows it better than his own. He has no time for mirrors, for the frivolous vanities of others. The only faces that matter are those of his targets and… this one. He dreams of this face, sometimes, when he’s alone in the cold and in the dark. They tell him that in cryostasis he cannot dream, but he knows this to be false, because dream he does.

He has the face in his sights, now, in the center of the crosshairs. His breathing is perfectly even, timed so that he can pull the trigger anytime he pleases. And then the target turns, and it feels as though those blue eyes are looking right at him through the lens of his ‘scope. His breath catches in his lungs as a half-formed memory surfaces, of a tiny apartment kept scrupulously clean, of the sound of wet coughing during a particularly bitter winter.

_You’re all right, Steve. Sit up for me, it’s time for your medicine.You’re going to be fine, just sit up, now._

He pulls up just long enough for the target to move. The mission is aborted, his first failure in a long time. There will be hell to pay if he comes back without this kill. The fingers of his left hand ache and throb and burn the way they haven’t in a very long time, and he flexes them gingerly, the creak of metal loud in his ears.

 

The second time he’s sent out, he tells himself that he’s prepared. He’s dreamed about his enemy, the one they’ve told him about. In his dreams he falls endlessly, his enemy’s face above him, hand outstretched, perhaps to save him or perhaps to cast him down, it’s impossible to tell.

This time, he tells himself that he’ll be able to pull the trigger, but it’s a lie. He stares at the back of the blond man’s head, and the image twists and blurs, replaced with an older, sharper image of the same face on a different body. The same face grinning up at him with bloodstained teeth and a split lip, eyes flashing with barely contained passion.

_You didn’t need to interfere. I had ‘em right where I wanted ‘em, Buck._

When he dreams of the unknown man again, the name he used rings loudly in his mind.

_Bucky!_

By the third time he’s sent against the American hero, failure feels almost inevitable. He goes through the motions of looking through his scope, of lining the crosshairs, but he doesn’t bother putting his finger on the trigger. This time, he lets Captain America come to him, sprinting up the stairs toward him. He runs, then, lets himself be pursued until he’s backed into a corner. He’s staring up, now, nowhere to go, nowhere to look but those blue eyes.

_What happened to you?_

_I joined the Army._

 

“Remember who you are,” the enemy says, and he thinks maybe he’s never been the enemy.

_I’m the enemy._

He doesn’t remember who he is but he remembers--Steve. Steve, the scrawny 4-F who followed him to Hell in order to pull him out again. He doesn’t remember his own name, but he remembers Steve. He remembers nights of too many drinks and not enough coal, of huddling together under the same blanket for warmth while Steve’s teeth chattered in his head and his breath rattled in his lungs. He remembers, just once, before he shipped out, the feeling of lips against his own, too dry and nervous and so right. He remembers pulling away, refusing to look at the hurt and confusion on Steve’s face. Steve, whose body never quite measured up to his heart, that enormous heart that he’d given up so easily to those he loved.

“Remember who you are,” Steve says again, locking eyes with him.

And Bucky remembers.


End file.
